One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
That evening I pace in gullible love;
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.
With intravenous need their hearts drop dead
(The inward death boyhood knew nothing of).
At daybreak I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.
The mind, encased in a darkening shed,
Blindly estranges the sunlight above.
The unlit night resembles my dread.
From the pulse of my trusting veins they’re bled.
Fitting like a vinegary glove,
The needle transmogrifies their eyes to lead.
Unforeseen fallout from the fountainhead—
Drug-sickness, self-contempt, flesh grown mauve—
Imprisons them. (The stars are dead.)
Maybe if I’d not trailed their pitch-black tread
My pyrrhic sobriety would be enough…
One morning I found my f(r)iends’ eyes were lead
And all the stars I’d wished on fled.